Belladonna
by Len
Summary: J/D. The final (9th) in 'Operation Moss': Donna still has a hangover, Josh is characteristically confused about life in general, and a conspiracy is revealed. Oh, and Donna is armed and dangerous. [In Progress] R&R!!
1. The Date With...Who?

Belladonna

Belladonna

By Len

Spoilers:Everything, nothing…no clue.

Teaser:The final installment in the Operation Moss series, wherein Donna still has a hangover, Josh is characteristically confused about life in general, and a conspiracy is revealed.Oh, and Donna is armed and dangerous.

Authors notes:Thanks first and foremost to Norma, who is a saint amongst betas, as well as being quite handy with a thesaurus.And thanks also to everyone who has given me "advanced" feedback on this fic – you know who you are, and I love you all.Thanks also to everyone who has sent such wonderful feedback on the previous installments of Operation Moss.I truly appreciate it!!

More notes:This along with all of my other fic can be found on my website:

[http://www.geocities.com/sekhmet_poppy/home.html][1]

Even More Notes:Please, please send feedback.It honestly will help me finish this story faster.Plus I love hearing from you all.

Still More Notes:This immediately follows "Good Morning: An Interlude" If you haven't read that one, you may want to go to my page really quick and look it over.Otherwise you may get lost.Although I tend to have that effect on people anyway….ahem.

~*~

**Chapter One: The Date With David**

My bedroom door flies open and hits the opposite wall, surprising my eyes into popping open. The clock on my night stand reads SOG, and this makes be feel sad because I can't for the life of me make SOG mean anything...no, wait. Five oh six. Oh, okay.  
  
"'kay, now you _really_ have to get up," Cammie tells me. She has a glass of water in one hand, a glass of lake scum in the other, a dress draped over her arm and a coil of rope around her neck. I sit up blearily and consider inquiring about the latter.  
  
I decide not to. "Give me one good reason," I suggest.  
  
She smirks. "David's coming to take you out to dinner in an hour."  
  
"WHAT?" I leap out of bed with true Barishnikov panache, and snatch the glass of water out of her hand on the way to the shower. "I should have been up hours ago!"  
  
My room-mate follows me, thoughtfully picking up things I might need along the way. Like, you know, a towel. "I tried to wake you up, but you just-"  
  
"Yeah, I know. Maybe I should call David and cancel..." I wonder.  
  
Cammie shakes her head so vehemently her scrunchy flies off across the bathroom and lands in the tub. "Not a chance. Do you realize what today is?"  
  
My alcohol-fogged brain churns out a short alphabetized list of holidays, but none that could really concern Cammie, David, or me. "Um, Sunday?" I try.  
  
She nods encouragingly. "It's your anniversary! Remember?"  
  
I stare at her stupidly. "My anniversary was in February, or in April, depending on whom you ask. And anyway, I somehow doubt that David would be…oh. You mean the David and me, anniversary."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"That's today?" I push her out the door, but not before she shoves the glass of pond scum into my hand.  
  
"Yes," she says from the other side of the door, "and drink this. It'll help."  
  
I take a sip. "Wow," I comment, gagging, "the flavor of road kill and the unexpected color of your run-of-the-mill garden mulch. Cam, you've surpassed yourself."   
  
"Shut up," she says good-naturedly. "If you're not ready by the time David gets here, I may take him!"  
  
To be perfectly honest, I almost wished she would. It would save me so much trouble.  
  
Does that sound bitchy? Uncharitable? Perhaps. But let me give you a quick over-view of the bad knitting-ish qualities my life has recently taken on. Starting from the beginning, I have a boyfriend.  
  
What, you ask? Why isn't Donnatella Moss leaping for joy? Why isn't she shouting it across the city? Could it possibly be because she doesn't really care? I'd like to answer your question in two parts - first, shut up, you're really starting to sound like Josh, and that just bugs me, and second...okay, there's just the one part. I'm getting there.  
  
I'm calling David my boyfriend because after two months of rather sporadic dating, he finally kissed me - properly kissed me - yesterday at lunch. Although this would have been much more romantic and sweet had he not actually kissed my twin sister, thinking it was me.  
  
All the same, from where I sat, the kiss looked very pleasant.  
  
Secondly, Josh...  
  
I sigh and step into the shower. Josh. Josh Josh Joshua Josh Josh. Josh has been acting strange. I mean, he's usually acting strange, whether it's buying me flowers at the wrong time or covertly burning the White House down. But this is a whole other kind of strange. This is staring off into space, forgetting what he's talking to me about kind of strange. I actually caught him skipping down the hall from the mess two days ago.  
  
This troubled me.  
  
The next confusing aspect of my life is that I have a twin sister. Actually, this has confused me for nearly thirty years, and generally confused everyone else, too. The current problem I have with this is that she originally showed up to beat up my boss (call me a pacifist, but I just don't like people doing that) but ended up making out with my boyfriend on a public street.  
  
Don't look at me like that. I only asked her to fill in for me at lunch, not stick her tongue down his throat.  
  
After successfully stirring up my life like a small boy on an anthill with a stick, she traipsed off to Vegas to elope with her occasionally-employed Scotch boyfriend.  
  
This I could have dealt with. Up until this point, I still had some degree of control over my life. But after this point...Oh, I just don't want to talk about it.  
  
I sigh, step out of the shower and wrap a towel around myself. For a moment, I have a flash back to my childhood. Until I was, like, eight, I used to have to take baths with my sister. We would sit there and play mermaids with our Barbies, our toes turning into prunes, until our mother would bustle into the unheated bathroom. I remember thinking at the moment when she whisked me out of the tepid water and wrapped me securely in a thick towel, that I would like to stay cocooned like that forever.  
  
Well, maybe that wasn't my precise thought - I was seven years old - but it was somewhere along those lines.  
  
It occurs to me that I may be becoming sickeningly sentimental in my old age. But since it looks like I'm going to an anniversary dinner, this is probably just the right age to be stuck in. If I can manage to tear myself out of my comfortable towel cocoon, that is.  
  
For the moment, I can't. Instead, I walk over to where Camilla Brown's Super Hangover Remover is watching me, and upend the glass over the sink.   
  
Nothing happens. The sludgy contents remain firmly lodged at the bottom.  
  
Just the idea of drinking this stuff on a regular basis would be enough to turn me into a teetotaler. Cammie, who actually does drink it, must have the digestive capabilities of a small hippopotamus.   
  
Eeew.  
  
Sorry, that was just me thinking about digesting anything. The very concept of food nauseates me at the moment. I wonder if I can ask the waiter for a plate of Saltines. That probably wouldn't go over to well at any of the places David likes to take me - he really likes those fancy French bistros. As long as I can avoid ingesting any type of creature that spends it's days under a rock, I think I'll be okay.   
  
Oh, augh.  
  
Studiously ignoring the toilet, I sit down on the edge of the tub and remember how I got into this state. It fits in nicely with Josh's recent strangeness. It's directly related to Josh's strangeness. I can, in fact, blame every tap-dancing elephant in my head on him.  
  
He told me he loved me. And then passed out, drunk.  
  
Of all the cruel, thoughtless things he's ever said to me, that takes the cake.  
  
I take those three words very, very seriously. Maybe, you wonder, it's because somewhere in my tragic past, no-one ever said them to me? No, actually. I come from a very verbal family, and they never for a moment let me think I wasn't loved. It's just kind of...it's really weird. It's just that _I_ can't say it. I can't say the words "I Love You" unless I really mean it.   
  
Yeah, I know. I have the emotional maturity of a six-year old. But there's no real turning back from "I Love You". Those words can't be laughed off. They don't go away. So when someone whom I've been close to for years tells me he loves me and smells like beer - let just say I've been down that path before.   
  
Once, just once, I'd like a man to be in his right mind before making me a promise like that. I deserve that much, don't I?  
  
No, that was an actual question. You can go ahead and answer. `Cause I'm beginning to wonder.  
  
I wrap a robe around myself and pad to my bedroom. Across the rumpled quilt lies a short, shimmery, pale blue dress. It has a scooped neckline and happens to be one size to small.  
  
"Cammie!" I holler. Surprisingly enough, my head does feel better. "Why is your dress on my bed?"  
  
"Because you're going to wear it!"  
  
"It's too small!"  
  
"It'll look great!" She pokes her head once again in the door. "Trust me on this, Donna. It makes _me_ look provocative. On you it will look—"  
  
I survey the hem-line. "Indecent?" I suggest.  
  
"Unbearably seductive."  
  
"It's six inches too short!"  
  
"It looks great on me," she replies.  
  
"You're five feet tall!"  
  
"It'll drive David nuts. In fact, I think you should seriously consider garters."  
  
"Go away!"  
  
As usual, she doesn't. "Dress for sex, Donna!"  
  
I stand there and gape at her for a moment. Eventually I get my vocal cords working again. "What?"  
  
"Tonight is the night, Donna."  
  
I wince. That sounds painfully familiar. "The night for sex?"  
  
"Yep. I think you've waited long enough, don't you?"  
  
"No!" I screech. She looks startled, so I try to tone it down a little. "I'm David's first relationship since his wife died in that freak accident."  
  
"Things like that happen. He should get on with his life."  
  
"Things like that do _not_ happen! She was crushed by an elevator while she was jogging. An accident like that simply does not happen. That's like being killed by a...a...vending machine or something!"  
  
"So you're really only concerned about David, huh? You're taking it slow for his sake?"  
  
"Yes," I tell her defiantly. I slip the dress over my head and enjoy the feel of the cool cloth against my skin.  
  
"It has nothing to do with-"  
  
"No!"  
  
Her green eyes crinkle skeptically. I sniff and dig around in the closet for a pair of heels. It's true, I insist to myself, I just don't want David to get hurt.  
  
"I think he is."  
  
I look up, curious. "Who's what?"  
  
"Big Bad Deputy Man. I think he's in love with you."  
  
"You're a lunatic!" I gasp. "But - wait. How did you...?"  
  
There's the Cheshire grin again. "'Donna Moss Tells All Under The Influence'," she says, sketching the headline out in the air.  
  
"He was drunk."  
  
"And your point is...?"  
  
"He didn't know what he was saying. He probably doesn't even remember it."  
  
Cammie crinkles her eyes again and leaves, letting me complete my beautification process in peace. I take meticulous care with my make-up, more out of absent-mindedness than any intention to wow my date. Although, I think, surveying my face in the mirror – I _do_ look pretty good.  
  
I hear the doorbell ring and rush out to get it. Outside in the hall David stands in slacks and a polo shirt, suddenly making me feel ridiculously over-dressed. He _does_ stare at me in impressed shock, and that makes up for a lot. That, and the fact that he has a dozen red roses in his hand.  
  
Yes, he brought me flowers.Roses, unfortunately, but flowers nonetheless. That is just so sweet and old-fashioned! If he pulls a box of chocolates out from behind his back, I may fall over laughing.  
  
Fortunately for the dress, he doesn't. He holds the flowers out to me. "Beautiful flowers for a beautiful lady,"  
  
`Wait,' says a snide little internal voice that sounds like (of course), Josh. `I heard that line on AMC last night!'  
  
`You don't even watch AMC, you dork,' I retort. "Thank you, David! They're absolutely beautiful! I don't know what to say!"  
  
`That'd be a first,' says snide Josh.   
  
"Why don't you run and put those in some water, sweetheart? Then we can go to dinner."  
  
I turn back into the apartment and obey. Outside the kitchen he's still talking. "I know you don't really like the fancy places, so I got us reservations at Tony's. I hope that's okay?"  
  
Tony's. Me and Josh used to go to Tony's every once in a while, sometimes just the two of us, sometimes with Sam or CJ and Toby. Of course, all of that stopped since the MS hit the press. "Yeah, that's great," I call back. I quickly arrange the roses in the vase - the same one that my last batch of April flowers came in. As I turn to leave the kitchen, it the top-heavy flowers tip it over and spray across the floor.   
  
"I'll get them for you, Donna," Cammie tells me from her spot next to the stove. "But I think it's a sign."  
  
I raise an eyebrow. "A sign?"  
  
"That he loves you."  
  
I got the feeling she wasn't talking about the man out in the living room. I shake my head. "Sometimes, Cam..."  
  
"Sometimes what?"  
  
"Sometimes I fear for your sanity." She opens her mouth to make a smart remark, but I talk fast and back out the door. "I'll be back later. See you!"  
  
He doesn't love me, I tell myself. Just saying it in my head makes me wilt a little more. But I'd bet money that he doesn't even remember anything that happened.  
  
David gallantly offers his arm. I take it and try to force myself out of my strange mood. "Shall we depart, mi Donna?" He says poetically.  
  
I smile at this; he really is such a ham sometimes.  
  
`Oh, gag me,' says that annoying voice.  
  
"Shut up," I tell it.  
  
"I beg your pardon?"  
  
"Oh, sorry David, not you. I was talking..." To the Josh in my head? Oh, that'll go over well. "Never mind. Let's blow this popsicle stand," I say in my best Bogart voice. This makes him laugh. And it makes the Josh in my head smile.  
  
Remind me to apologize to Cammie when I get back. It turns out _I'm_ the lunatic in apartment 42C.

   [1]: http://www.geocities.com/sekhmet_poppy/home.html



	2. The Pit Of Despair

Chapter Two: The Pit of Despair

** **

I sit in a chair, watching the late afternoon light reflect off the same window I broke six months ago. I'm relieved that I don't have the slightest inclination to do it again. I don't, in fact, have the slightest inclination to do anything. I'm still wearing yesterday's clothes, I haven't shaved, and I don't think I even locked my car doors after I parked. And I don't really care.  
  
It's summertime, so it won't be getting dark for a while. I can see, all the lovers, all the kids and their parents and all the elderly couples and their poodles walk under the window. All those happy people.  
  
I've ruined it. I've ruined everything. Donna's not going to hang around after this latest stunt - who could blame her? I'm just trying to imagine the future without her, and am failing miserably.  
  
She was with me even before she actually was. Her...her just flat-out Donna-ness has permeated every part of my life, even the past. When I think back to the really great moments, like graduating from law school, I've somehow added Donna to the memory. I wish she could have been there, to share those things with me.   
  
If nothing else, she would have made sure I actually _remembered_ graduating.I can just imagine her dusting a piece of lint off my shoulder and whispering "Do good up there."

Let's just forget about the fact that she would have been – what?Fourteen?

When I gave up working for a sure thing and followed my heart to work for Bartlet I really had it easy. I wasn't seeing anybody at the time, so I wasn't like Sam, who got ditched by his gold-digging fiancée. I didn't have that grief. But I would have loved to have Donna there with me, arguing, approving, discussing all the great things we could do for the country with Bartlet as President.  
  
The clock on the shelf chimes six. It's a mantle clock I made back in wood shop in high school - it was either wood shop or home ec, and everyone already thought I was a nerd. So I wisely went with wood shop. The clock runs well, and is very sturdy - never let it be said that a Lyman didn't build something to last.  
  
Yeah, I was making that clock when I got this scar across my knuckles - see it? Donna says I'm accident prone - I guess I've always been that way. Ceiling tiles, filing cabinets, patches of ice, poodles, bullets...Donna.  
  
I'm beginning to get really maudlin when someone rings the buzzer. I can safely say that there's no-one downstairs that I really want to see. But just for kicks, I hit the button. "Who is it?" I scratch out.  
  
"Josh. It's Sam."  
  
Great. Sam has just broken one of the major Rules of Guy Friendship. When your friend has had his heart ground into tiny little pieces, you leave him alone. For at least two days. Then, after that very important mourning period has passed, you drag his ass down to the nearest bar and get very, very drunk.  
  
Although, since I am the third most important person in the country, and tomorrow is a work day, I suppose Sam is right in skipping to the end.  
  
I unlock the door. "C'mon up."  
  
He must have run up the stairs, because I'm just turning away when he knocks preemptively and walks in.  
  
"Hey Sam. Come right in," I say sarcastically.  
  
"Josh. You look like crap."  
  
I run a hand over my chin. "Thanks. You're a pillar of support."  
  
"No problem. I heard what happened." Sam looks at the floor and kicks at the carpet, looking vaguely guilty.About what is anybody's guess.  
  
"Who called you? CJ?"  
  
"Yeah." He exhales loudly and then plops onto the couch. I really have no choice but to follow him. I resume the seat I've sat in all day, and my back twinges in protest.   
  
"So you're here to help, is that it, Sam? 'Cause no offense, but I really don't think you have much control over this situation."  
  
"Sure I do. Operation Moss, remember?"  
  
I look up and scowl at him. "That ridiculous mission was accomplished. I was able to discover whether my assistant has any feelings for me, and the answer in case you were still, y'know, not sure – is a resounding negative."  
  
Sam has put on his 'cheering up' face. I hate that face. "You don't know that for sure."  
  
"Well, considering the fact that she one, has never told me she felt anything but friendship; two, practically upchucked at the discovery of my feelings for her; and three - and this is the good one - is actually dating someone who is by all appearances _not_ a gomer...I think I can say she doesn't even like me anymore."  
  
"Who says he's not a gomer? I'd say we still need to gather more information before we can make a fair-"  
  
"Sam! _I'm_ more of a gomer than Dave Marienetti! In fact, when I'm out a job in another four years, I _will_ be a gomer. I'll be just another political shark, circling around Washington. I'm not much better than that stupid insurance lobbyist."   
  
"What insurance lobbyist...?"  
  
I wave this off. "Doesn't matter. What I'm trying to say is that I don't really blame her."  
  
My best friend looks a little confused. Probably because that whole outpouring made a whole lot better sense when I was mulling it over in my head this afternoon than when it actually came out.  
  
"Don't blame her for what?"  
  
"For hating my breathing guts."  
  
"She doesn't-"  
  
"I saw it, Sam. God, I'm such an idiot!" I throw the recliner back and stare at the water stain on my ceiling.  
  
Sam shakes his head. "She looked _shocked_, as in, 'Well blow me down, knock me over with a feather' kind of shocked. That may be a good sign."  
  
Really, the idea is so stunningly ridiculous I turn to him and smile. "Absolutely. I see that you're right Sam. It's a good kind of...whatever."  
  
He just shakes his head and pulls out a magazine from under a stack of newspapers on the coffee table. It's a copy of that magazine Donna's sister writes for. I wonder if Norie realizes how closely Donna's been following her career. I bet not. Donna's pretty sparing with her praise, although she shows her pride in other ways.  
  
Here I go again. If I break out any pictures and start to weep over them, I want someone to whack me over the head with a leg of lamb. Sam won't - he's too busy talking to the self-help column on page twenty-three. "Are you going to sit here and mope all day?" he asks out loud.  
  
"Was that a quote or a question?"  
  
"Josh."  
  
"Well," I reach up and stretch, hearing my back pop and my left shoulder twinge. "I got here at eleven, it's six now, so..."  
  
"Let's go," Sam states, dropping the magazine back down again and standing. "You're wallowing, and it's disgusting."  
  
"Thanks. I'm not going anywhere."  
  
"Yes, you are."  
  
"I am not."  
  
"_Yes_, you are."  
  
"_No_, I'm-"  
  
"I called Donna's apartment today," he says abruptly.  
  
I stare at him. "You – you – what? What did she say?"  
  
Sam smirks. The bastard actually smirks! "I'll tell you over dinner," he says smugly.  
  
I try to come up with a way to concede without appearing needy. I have to pretend like I don't care what Donna says. I have to pretend like I was going out anyway. Even though a minute before I had every intention of taking root in my arm chair. Hmm...  
  
"I'm hungry," I say lamely. "Let's go get something to eat." It doesn't help that Sam isn't at all upset at having lost that battle of wills. But instead of re-directing my energies and making him plead for mercy, I take the high road. I check to make sure I have my wallet and walk out the door, leaving him smirking in my living room.   
  
The ride to the restaurant is very exciting. For such a disgustingly nice guy, Sam has an A-type personality behind the wheel. His black BMW zips through the traffic at such a high speed that I can't even turn my head to look out the window due to sheer G-force. The car screeches to halt and Sam performs a neat parallel park. I peel myself off the leather seat.   
  
"I thought this would make a nice change from all that Chinese food," Sam comments, locking his car by remote. It emits a Sam-like cheerful chirp, and flashes it's headlights in farewell. "We ought to have Ching's Chinese Chow set up shop in the mess. It would save us the delivery fee."  
  
I don't reply. I'm too busy trying to pull myself together before entering the restaurant. No amount of willpower is going to make me look presentable, but hopefully I can at least pull off human. I push open the stained glass door and shuffle into the warmly lit interior of Tony's.  
  
Me and Donna used to come here a lot after a long day at work. Sometimes we'd bring a load of files to sort through, sometimes we'd come just to unwind. It's a great place to unwind. It reminds me of a place I used to go to when I was in college - open all night, with cheep food and newspaper for table cloths. It had no delusions of being a classy place - instead of art work, students would pin their expired driver's licenses, library cards, and school ID's to the walls.  
  
Granted, Tony's caters to a more adult crowd. For one thing, it has a bar. Instead of driver's licenses, it has pilfered license plates and road signs covering the walls. Each table also features salt and pepper shakers.  
  
Sam goes to the first table and starts to sit down, but I keep walking. At the back, I find the booth I'm looking for. Hanging over the table is one of those faux Tiffany lampshades, patterned in round shapes that are either hot-air balloons or deformed watermelons. With the ease of practice, I reach up and flick the light bulb once with my index finger. It goes out like...well, a light, and I relax into the darkness.  
  
I sigh and rest my head against the wall behind me.  
  
"So," Sam says, sliding in across from me. "I called Donna today."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"She was asleep."  
  
This annoys me a little. "She was ASLEEP? You drag my ass all the way down here to tell me she was asleep? This couldn't have come out, oh, I don't know -when you first showed up at my apartment?"  
  
"Josh, keep it down. People are starting to stare," he hisses.  
  
"Whoop-ti-do," I tell him. Which just goes to show how out of it I am, 'cause I never would have said that if I was my normal lucid self.  
  
"Her room-mate was there," he continues.  
  
"Her room-mate is always there. I think she's agoraphobic."  
  
"Cammie thinks you should try again."  
  
"Try what again?"  
  
"Telling Donna."  
  
I shoot up out of my chair. "Are you NUTS?"  
  
"Cammie thinks it's a good idea."  
  
"Yeah, well the last good idea Camilla Brown had was buying those two blood-sucking cats."  
  
"Donna thought you we're drunk."  
  
"Well, of course she - what?"  
  
Sam blinks at me impatiently. "She thought you were drunk, and it upset her."  
  
"She thought I was drunk...hmm..." The gears are turning, the ticker-tape is accumulating... "That's fantastic!" I finally shout.  
  
"What is?"  
  
I realize I've stood up and am slapping the table next to our booth, much to the alarm of the people sitting at it. I smile nervously and give their table a few more pats for good measure before returning to my own. "The solution, Sam," I say, leaning across the Formica surface. "I've got it!"  
  
He grins. "Really?"  
  
I grin back. "Yeah!"  
  
"Excellent! What is it?"  
  
"I'm going to pretend like I don't remember it!"  
  
His shoulders slump. "That? That's your wonderful plan? That's one of the worst ideas I've ever heard!"  
  
"Then you've obviously never heard Margaret's plan to take over the world," I say, really getting into it. This could actually work. If I can pull this off convincingly, then everything can go back to the way it was before. And I can try winning Donna over again at a later date, with more finesse and skill.  
  
"Josh, this isn't exactly something you can pretend didn't happen, you know. You've been drunk before, usually around Donna, and you've never blurted out that you loved her."  
  
"Exactly."  
  
"You're doing this by yourself," Sam warns. "I hope you realize that. I'll stick by you if you want to burn down the west wing, but I'm not going to stand by and watch you blow your chance with Donna."  
  
I grin at him. I am a man with a plan. No, scratch that. I am _da_ man. "Quit being so dramatic! I've got it all figured out. I'll go to work tomorrow and pretend like none of this ever happened, and everything will be okay again. Or at least," I amend, "more okay than things presently are."  
  
Our drinks arrive - a Heineken for Sam, a Dr. Pepper for me. 'Cause let's face it, for me, nothing good every comes from me drinking alcohol. Sam takes a swig of his beer and checks out the waitress as she retreats; I concentrate on trying to hold a piece of ice onto the bottom of my glass with my straw. "So," I say idly. "Why was Donna asleep in the middle of the day? She gets usually gets up at seven." The ice bobs back up to the surface and splashes me.  
  
"Oh-" Sam makes a vague hand gesture and swallows his drink. "She and Cammie went on a bender last night. After the party. She was sleeping it off."  
  
"What?" I stare at him. "Donna went out and got drunk? Donna doesn't do that. _I'm_ the one who does that. This is...this is _beyond_ bad! Don't you see, Sam? I'm driving her to drink!"  
  
"C'mon, Josh. What makes you think it was because of you? Maybe she went to another party and got carried away. Maybe she and Dave got in a fight. Let's look on the bright side."   
  
I just groan and let my head fall forward onto the table. *Thunk.* I am a horrible person. I'm turning the woman I love into a binge drinker.  
  
After about five minutes of close examination of a few breadstick crumbs and some grains of salt hidden under the napkin holder, I smell something. It's probably my over-active imagination, still reeling from a series of heartaches, but I look up anyway. I can swear I smell Donna's kiwi-lime shampoo mixed with her lavender hand lotion, wafting like a cool breeze through the aroma of charred garlic that fills the restaurant.   
  
I must make some strange squawk, because Sam looks away from the waitress with whom he is now openly flirting and gives me an annoyed look.  
  
"What?" he asks.  
  
I can't speak. I'm having a little trouble breathing, but I think this is mainly due to the fact that my heart has jumped up into my throat and is holding onto my trachea for dear life. I just point and stare.  
  
"Oh, fantastic," Sam mutters.  
  
It's Donna. It's a whole lot of Donna. Where did she get that dress? Isn't it illegal to go out in something like that? And why is she here? Could it possibly be that she's here to see-  
  
Nope. Crap. There's Davy boy. And there goes my evening. Give me a second and I'm pretty sure we can also bid farewell to my lunch. Hopefully Donna and Dave aren't the kind of cutesy couple who feed each other food in public places. And if they decide to share a plate of spaghetti with only one meatball....  
  
Oh, the mind boggles.  
  
Sam, the waitress having teetered off to work, slouches down in the booth. "They haven't seen us," he whispers.   
  
"Nope."  
  
"Maybe we could sneak out the back."  
  
"Are you crazy?" I demand, looking at him. He does look a little crazy with his eyes peeking up over the table. "We're not going anywhere. We were here first."  
  
"The age-old cry," he mutters. "But don't you think that in this case you would be more comfortable somewhere else, considering-"  
  
"Considering what?"  
  
"Well, you know. What happened."  
  
"What happened? I don't remember anything," I say staunchly.  
  
"Oh, God," he groans.  
  
I ignore him and watch the couple across the top of my Dr. Pepper. Dave picks a table right in the middle of the restaurant, when I know for a fact Donna hates to have her back to the room. He makes a big production about pulling her chair out for her and then tucking it back in.  
  
See, when I did that for Penny Titherton, right before senior prom, I accidentally squashed her against the table. I have since come to the conclusion that the only men who can perform that particular move are ones who have far too much time to practice it, and far too little strength.  
  
While I am damning Dave as a weakling, Sam is perfecting his 'I just escaped from Belleview' impression. Namely, he's attempting to use the reflection in his beer-bottle to see behind him. The impression is a success, because the flirty waitress takes one look at him and doesn't come back to take our order. No matter. I am no longer hungry. I am a man on a mission.  
  
I decide to wait until their food has arrived before embarking on my 'Deny All Knowledge' crusade. I watch Donna fold and re-fold her napkin, and laughing at something Dave says. But when he reaches across and takes her hand, I realize something must be done. I square my shoulders and slide out of the booth.  
  
"Where are you going?" Sam asks from under the table.  
  
"To fix this."  
  
I swagger through the maze of tables, trying to find my carefree groove, and getting the feeling I'm failing pretty badly. But what the hell. Here I am, right behind the happy couple. Let see if I can remember how to be Donna's _friend_.


	3. Beware The Flying Food

I have a terrible feeling I left the shower on

**Chapter Three:Beware The Flying Food**

I have a terrible feeling I left the shower on. I don't think it ever occurred to me to turn it off. I wonder if I should call Cammie or if I should just have faith that she'll eventually notice the lack of water pressure in the kitchen.  
  
I also have the feeling that I'm being watched. Just like I had the terrible feeling that on the way over here, we were being followed. I may be getting paranoid, because I also thought that when we walked through the front doors of Tony's, everything fell silent – including the jukebox – just like in some old western movie. But, as I tug at my skirt again, I think that even the hookers in old westerns wore more than what I presently am.  
  
"….so I give him a look and explain to him that it's not a government vehicle, it's my car!" David finishes, chuckling at the memory. I laugh and try to imagine what the heck he's talking about. No ideas come to mind. Unlike certain other men of my acquaintance, he doesn't make any extravagant hand gestures that would clue me in.  
  
"I wonder what's taking so long with the food?" I say out loud. I guess I'm trying to prove to him that I know where I am. It doesn't work, because David gets that look that people have when they just realized they've asked a store mannequin for directions. He smiles nervously at me and passes me a bread roll from the basket on the table.  
  
"This should help tide you over. And…erm…" he stutters.  
  
"Pardon?" I ask, swallowing a chunk of bread.  
  
"Well, Donna…"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"This is a little difficult for me, because—"  
  
Flashing him my most encouraging smile, I urge him on. "I don't bite, I promise."  
  
David takes my hand and gently and holds it there on the table. "Well, there's something I've been meaning to ask you," he tells me seriously, and then starts rubbing the back of my hand with his thumb. Hmm. If you put together the Italian food, the cozy atmosphere, the cute table for two (at which I can feel everyone in the room looking at us), it almost adds up to…  
  
Oh. No. Oh. No. If he's about to do what I think he is…oh no. The hand he holds quickly turns into a block of ice. I try to think of some way to head him off without hurting his feelings.   
  
Thinking.  
  
Still thinking.  
  
Oh, God.  
  
As if in an answer to my prayer, two hands pop out of nowhere and cover half my face. I know this trick. It's played at Frat mixers everywhere. I believe the person is supposed to say "Guess who," but that usually gives it away.  
  
But it doesn't matter - I know who's standing behind me anyway. It's not weird that I know every line, every ridge and every scar on these hands by feel, is it? Even though I've never actually…you know…made a serious study of them? Let's just hope that's perfectly natural.  
  
I sigh. "Josh, I'm trying to eat, here. Will you knock it off?" I can'tsummon the appropriate degree of annoyance to my voice, though. Or a great deal of surprise. Josh's genius for date sabotage has ceased to amaze me. I no longer wonder how he wound up at the same sidewalk café I sat at with Chad from the BLM last year, or how he managed to sit directly behind me and Steven from Accounting when we went to go see the new Keanu Reeves movie back in February. Josh just has this weird radar for my dates - he honestly doesn't do it on purpose. We've both resigned ourselves to the fact that the more informal my dates are, the better chance there is that he will crash them.  
  
It appears he hasn't lost his touch.  
  
Josh knocks it off, gives me a rather roguish grin and pulls out a chair across from me. Then he plops down in it. "Hey, Donna! Dave. Sam and I are having some pizza. You wanna join us? We could make it a party!" He waggles his eyebrows. "Get a little Springsteen playing, or some REM…"  
  
His smile is contagious, but I shake my head. "Josh, we are not having any 'Shiny, Happy People'. Now go away."  
  
"But Donna," he whines, "You're my backup! My musical wing-woman! My groovy lady! It won't sound the same without you!"  
  
You have no idea how hard it is to resist that face - what? Oh, you do? I have to actually grit my teeth to keep from chucking my date and starting up the floor show.Because I'm kind of in the middle of something important. "No, Josh."  
  
He shrugs. "Fine. You don't know what you're missing. Hey, what are you kids up to?"  
  
I'm speechless. David is still holding my hand, on the verge of proposing, and Josh wants to know what we're doing? Could he be any more thick-skulled?

Why do ask myself rhetorical questions?  
  
"Well, actually Josh," David starts, "Donna and I were just talking—"  
  
"Really? That's great. So Donna, what'd you think of CJ's party last night?" Josh asks, turning innocent brown eyes on me. No. Don't tell me he's going to use the party card already. Not the 'Wow, how 'bout that party? I can't remember a thing' card. But it's like watching a train wreck - I know what's happening but I can't force myself to look away from Josh's face as he continues, "And man, I don't know what kind of beer that was, but I gotta tell you, it sure packed a punch!"  
  
"I-um—" I say, testing my powers of speech. Nope, still don't have them back yet.   
  
"I mean, I remember Ainsley tossing Sam for the last toquito – who knew she was so strong? - and that's about it," he continues blithely on. "At least this time I didn't end up on your…um…I mean…" he looks at Dave, and finally sputters to halt. Dave looks at him suspiciously. They are both oblivious to the fact that my world has just imploded. He played the Party Card. He actually did it. I'm sure there are little bits and pieces of vital organs scattered about my sudden, gaping emptiness.  
  
But I rally. I'm really quite good at that. "No, I don't remember much about last night," I reply coolly. Don't you dare cry in front of him, Donna, I order myself. It's not like you didn't see this coming. Think inner poise. Think professionally remote. Serenity now. Shiny happy people holding hands… "I think that Toby spiked the punch."   
  
He looks like a man who has been kicked in the stomach only to pleasantly discover that it realigned his spine. "Really?" he asks with a heartbreaking grin.   
  
"Yeah," I say hollowly.  
  
"Donna?" David asks.   
  
I turn to him, hoping he's realized I'm not exactly the most comfortable person in the room at the moment. "My hero!' I think, 'Ask me to marry you and I'll accept on the spot. Just get me the hell out of here!' "Yeah, David?"  
  
He pokes at something the waitress just delivered. "Did you order the chicken parmesan?"  
  
Gah!! Idiots! All of them! Every single one! I bare my teeth at him. "Yes, David, I did."  
  
"Oh. Okay. Then what did I order?"  
  
"Um….the spaghetti."  
  
I decide I'd embarrass myself if I started banging my head on the table, so I look instead for something to chew on. Josh makes fun of the way I chew on office supplies, etc, but it really is a very good way to relieve stress. Unfortunately, there aren't any office supplies handy. I settle for taking another large chunk of my bread roll and stuffing it in my mouth. The way I figure it, I think, chewing determinedly, things couldn't get much worse than they are right at this point – the climax of a nightmarish weekend. How can you top a nice cozy chat with the object of past romantic fixation and your present boyfriend?   
  
Huh? Can't think of anything, can you? It's not possible to top that, that's why.   
  
You'd really think by now I'd learn to stop thinking that, wouldn't you?   
  
But I haven't. And not three seconds after this thought passes through my brain, Sam, CJ and Toby appear out of nowhere, like the Three Stooges or Shakespearean witches or…Charlie's Angels. Ha. Sam's the pretty one, Toby's the smart one, CJ's the sporty one.  
  
Was it just me or did they pause for a moment to let the cross-breeze blow dramatically through their hair?  
  
"Then this is yours," David says, passing me my plate and nearly taking Josh's nose off. I smile and give David his plate, this time aiming for Josh's chin while it's owner is momentarily distracted by the entrance of the Angels.   
  
A chin that is not shaved.  
  
The man is a stinking liar, I realize with surprise.   
  
And now for a little background: after working with Josh for three years, I know things. Like when he is playing Super-Politician, he likes to look the part. Well, as close to the part as he can. Snazzy suits, the walk, and he never, ever lets anyone see him if he hasn't shaved. He said once it makes the other guy think you have a weakness. You don't want to give that impression.  
  
As Super-Politician, he's fine. But when something upsets his personal life, that's when he forgets to shave. And if my calculations are correct, the only thing that has had the opportunity to upset his strangely compulsive nature has been me.  
  
I think he remembers Saturday night.  
  
My hand must shake or something, because somehow the entire contents of David's plate end up in Josh's lap. He yips, jumps up, and starts swiping at his pants with a napkin. "Donna!" he squeaks reproachfully.   
  
"You're a liar," I say before I can stop myself. He freezes and looks at me. David freezes and looks at me. CJ, Sam, and Toby halt in their approach and look at me.  
  
"What?" Josh asks quietly. He knows he's been busted. Guilt, embarrassment and appeal all flash across his face at the same time, and he looks too petrified to be capable of further speech. But this works because I know if I open _my_ mouth it will only be to call him not very nice things.  
  
He knows. He knows what he said on Saturday, and he is planning on just ignoring it? Pretending it never happened? Was it all some kind of joke? What if he found out about my little Christmas episode and decided to have a little fun with the stupid blonde assistant? What if somehow Toby let it slip?  
  
Hey - I see your surprise. Toby, you ask? What does Toby know that I don't? I guess I may as well tell you, because after the day I've had, all bets are pretty much off anyway.   
  
Well, back at Christmas with that whole PTSD thing, I may have let a few things slip. Toby - although he would kill me if he knew I told anybody this - is actually a very kind, caring person. I came out of my meeting with Stanley, on the verge of tears, and Toby comes up to me and says, "You want to talk about it?"  
  
Did I. In retrospect I realize he was probably referring to my meeting with Stanley, but I poured out the whole story of how much it was killing me to see the man I loved set firmly in self-destruct mode. By the time I left his office, Toby was quite visibly shell-shocked. Emotional outpourings from a twenty-seven year old heart-broken woman are a little hard to deal with, I guess.  
  
He told me he'd never tell anyone. Once I came to my senses, I made him promise that. But promises can be forgotten, and there will always be leaks. What if Josh knows?  
  
David breaks into my thoughts by silently offering Josh his handkerchief, and I realize how ridiculous I'm being. This is Josh we're talking about. Even if he did find out that I used to have a colossal crush on him, he'd probably feel more like avoiding me for the rest of the term – no, make that the rest of his life – than toying with me.  
  
"Well," Toby says, after a few more minutes of silence, "This is an unusual occurrence."   
  
"Hey, is that chicken parmesan?" Sam asks, reaching. "I love that. And Tony's makes the best—ow! What was that for?"  
  
CJ glares at him. "Can we worry about your dinner later? We have a problem to deal with, here."  
  
Josh waves a meatball at her. "There's no problem here, CJ. I was just trying to get Donna to sing."  
  
I stare at him. "What? You don't want me to sing! You want me to pretend that nothing out of the ordinary occurred last night."I'm so upset I feel myself lapsing into movie dialogue. Well, let me tell you something. I'm going to sing like a bird, mister.After CJ gets through with you, we could call it your swan song—"  
  
"Whoa, Donna – stop with the film-noir stuff, will you? It's kind of weird."  
  
"Josh! You lied. You know what happened."  
  
"Well, yeah. Kind of. Look, Donna, I didn't mean to—"  
  
So much for my no tears resolution. I definitely feel a sniffle coming on. "It was too much, Joshua. It's not a joke. 'Donnatella I love you' can't really be laughed off. I want an explanation," I tell him. Then I realize the entire restaurant, including David, is staring at us. "What?" I yell. "Mind your own business!"  
  
They immediately turn away. Josh looks impressed until he remembers he's the one in the doghouse.  
  
"Um, Donna?" David asks, tugging on my dress. "What's going on?"  
  
Everyone ignores him. Josh goes back into Almost-Groveling mode. "Look, I want to explain--"  
  
"Here? Now?" I demand, jabbing him in the chest with my finger. He watches it with alarm.  
  
"But you just said you wanted an explanation!"  
  
"I didn't mean in the middle of Tony's, right this minute!"  
  
"Why not?" he yells, noodles flying off his clothing as he waves his arms in aggravation. "What's so wrong with right now?"   
  
"Because," I yell back, "I'm in the middle of a date, and my date was in the middle of proposing to me!"   
  
Dead silence. Wow. As I exhale an angry breath, I realize that of everyone in the room, David is perhaps the most stunned. Granted, Josh is a near second, with his whole 'you just ran over my dog' face, but honestly, David looks as if he never even meant to…  
  
Oh. Well. Well. This could be embarrassing. Maybe I know fewer things about the ways of love than I originally thought. "Um, David?" I say.  
  
He has to clear his throat a few times before any words come out. "Yeah, Donna?"  
  
"You weren't trying to….you know….we're you," I state. And damn my alabaster skin. David shakes his head.  
  
"No. I was…I was actually going to ask…"  
  
"Yeah?" I ask a little desperately.  
  
He squirms a little, and clears his throat. "It sounds a little crazy, but I was just wondering…" he trails off nervously.  
  
"Oh, for the love of God, spit it out already!"  
  
David blinks, and blurts out two words. "Operation Moss!"  
  
I cock my head to one side. "Operation Moss?"  
  
He cocks his head to the other side. "You don't know anything about it? Oh. That makes me feel much better, because good relationships are based on trust, and…"  
  
"David, what are you talking about?" I'm so confused here I feel like I've fallen into the second act of a play without seeing the first. Next to me, Sam appears to randomly trip and fall over.

  
"Well, you have to understand – I wasn't snooping or anything. I was looking for a memo."  
  
"Right," I repeat, "A memo. Then what?"  
  
"And I saw some of the notes Katie wrote on her blotter…."  
  
"Okay…"His secretary doesn't believe in paper and so just writes all messages on her blotter.It's up to the office to find out who's called for them, which has created rather amusing problems in the past.

  
"And the basic gist of it was that someone wanted Katie to find out about Patricia."  
  
"Your wife?"  
  
"Yeah. Then it had a number, and it was _your_ phone number. And it said Op Moss. I guess it could be 'operator Moss', or 'opposition Moss', but we work in the White house so I just kind of figured…"  
  
"…that it was an operation and I had something to do with it." I start nodding like everything makes perfect sense and in fact I knew about it from the beginning. "Um, Josh?"  
  
He snorts, and then covers it up with a cough. I think he may be hysterical. How can someone look so guilty and so amused at the same time? "Yeah?'  
  
"What is Operation – now what the hell are you laughing about?"  
  
Josh gives up the battle and holds his stomach. He's laughing at me again. No, he's laughing at himself. There is a certain tone to his laughter when it's self-depreciating, and he has that tone now.  
  
And yes, I'm still completely lost, in case anyone was wondering.  
  
"It's just…you thought…" he gasps out, "and then Dave….front of everybody…Operation Moss…this is just too…HA HO HAW!!!"  
  
"Josh," I order. "This whole 'let's laugh at humiliated Donna' thing you have has got to stop."  
  
"…HA HA HUH HAW HO….!!"  
  
"Josh!"  
  
Toby pegs him with a bread roll and CJ slaps him across the head. He stops laughing abruptly. "Ha – Hem! Er…what were you saying, Donna?"  
  
I lean towards him and whisper dangerously, "Operation Moss?"  
  
"Oh. Yeah. That." If Josh had been wearing a tie, he would have loosened it. "It's not really anything."  
  
Toby picks up another bread roll and tosses it from hand to hand. "The idiot's been checking up on you, investigating your boyfriend…"   
  
"What?" I cry, at the same time Josh cries, "Toby!"  
  
Toby continues, "Sabotaging your dates…just generally acting pathetically jealous and pissing off most of the senior staff."   
  
I stare at Josh, who looks just plain guilty, now. "Then this whole…whole thing with you 'accidentally interrupting' my dates—"  
  
"It _was_ accidental, I swear. I would never –"  
  
I hold a hand up. "Don't, Josh. Just…I don't even want to hear it."  
  
David finally gets a clue, and after firmly glaring at Josh he turns to me. "Donna, would you like me to take you home?"  
  
"Yes, please," I answer politely, clasping my shaking hands together so no-one can see them. There's something vaguely squishy in my left fist, but I ignore it and allow David to take my elbow, guiding me towards the exit.  
  
"But – Donna! Wait!" Out of the corner of my eye I see a flurry of movement and then hear a thud. When I turn around, Josh is lying on his back atop a large puddle of spaghetti. He slides around in an attempt to find his feet, and fails. After another moment of this, he settles for propping himself up on his hands and looking at me from the floor. "Donna," he says quietly, "I meant it. What I said last night – I meant it."  
  
The remains of my mutilated bread roll falls from my numb hands, and my eyes fill with tears. The restaurant has again fallen silent, so I'm sure what I think I just heard was just some auditory hallucination extrapolated from the ringing in my inner ear and not actually… "What?" I croak. He grabs onto a chair for support and pulls himself up to his feet.   
  
"I love you, Donnatella. And I really, really mean it. Oh – no wait, don't get all…please…I'm sorry, I didn't want you to get all…"  
  
If I wanted to, I could break away from David, and walk straight into his arms. If I wanted to.  
  
Oh, who am I kidding? This has nothing to do with what I want. This is a spectacularly bad thing, and I know it. I fix my eyes on a spot just over Josh's left shoulder. "Shut up, Josh," I sniff. "I'm going home."  
  
"Oh." He looks positively stricken. Someone kill me now. "Oh. Okay."  
  
I turn back towards the stained-glass front doors, and don't look back. If I look back, I know I'll end up making a huge mistake, one way or another.   
  
Right before the door swings shut, I hear another huge, soggy thud. Josh, Josh, Josh. You couldn't have timed this worse if you'd tried.  
  


~*~ ~*~ ~*~  
  
"So you didn't even say anything?" Cammie asks in disbelief, an hour later. "Not, 'Oh, Josh, I love you too!' Or, 'Take me now' or anything?"  
  
I swing my feet over the edge of the fire escape and look at her skeptically. "Cammie, I told him to shut up. And if I ever told him 'take me now', I think he'd have me committed."  
  
"But, the moment is gone. No chick-flick ending for you, Donna. You missed your chance." Cammie mournfully tosses a White Castle hamburger over the railing, and I listen for the splat. Cammie's Aunt Carlotta died three months ago, leaving Cammie her extensive Tupperware collection and a freezer full of White Castle boxes. Even a chef of Cammie's caliber was unable to make anything out of the small, frozen hockey pucks, so now we use them to feed the neighborhood strays. We're guessing they have all major ingredients of dry cat food, but it's hard to be sure. I unwrap another one and send it sailing.  
  
"What chance?" I ask. I'm trying not to sound bitter, but I don't think I'm successful. "A relationship with a politician? There's no such thing as a happy ending for one of those."  
  
"But you used to—"  
  
I smile. "Yeah. But you know me and my imagination, Cam. I guess I forgot that even if by some miracle Josh did develop feelings for me, that he would be persecuted. And so would I. I mean, seriously," I say, twisting to face her and getting really caught up. "Do you know what makes Josh stand out from other politicians? What makes him so good at what he does?"  
  
"Stubbornness and a killer smile?" she suggests.  
  
I roll my eyes. "Integrity, Cammie. People respect Josh Lyman. And a relationship with his assistant would destroy that."  
  
Cammie throws another mini-burger, and the cacophony of cats below increases a decibel. "Donna - this thing between you and Josh isn't just another cheap Beltway affair. For God's sake, you're both single. You're both professional."  
  
"It would ruin his career."  
  
"I think you give yourself too much credit. You all by your lonesome could not ruin the career of the Deputy Chief of Staff."  
  
"I could severely dent it."  
  
"I see." My room-mate experimentally bends a patty between her fingers. It snaps in half. "What _are_ these things made of?" she wonders out loud, before dropping both halves over the side. "So by lying to Josh, you're just looking out for him, right?"  
  
I'm quiet for a moment, listening to the cats below, my neighbor's booming music, and the sounds of the nation's capitol gearing up for another Monday. I love Washington. I mean, not the smog and the traffic and the heat, but what it represents. This is, as Josh would say, where the action is.  
  
"I'm afraid that something's going to happen," I answer her. "I like things the way they are. I like going to work and making a difference. I like spending my days with the smartest people in the country. Josh will get over me, and things will go on."  
  
Oh, how pathetic am I? All I need is a little sea spray and Celine Dion in the background. I dump the rest of the contents of the White Castle box into our empty tortilla chip bowl, and then trace the little logo with one finger. Beside me, Cammie snorts.  
  
"Donna, dear, how many women has Josh dated in the time you've known him?"  
  
"I don't see what that—"  
  
"How many?"  
  
"Um…there was Mandy the dragon lady - but they broke up pretty soon after I joined the campaign, and there was Sarah Wessinger of the smoking jacket fame, Susan Delphi from DOA, and Joey Lucas from California - but they never really went out….and…I guess that's it."  
  
"You're his One," she says decidedly. "And you need to grow up."  
  
"Hey!"  
  
In the moonlight, Cammie's green eyes glitter like a cat's. At the moment, it's a little disconcerting. "I mean it. You know what you want, now you have a chance to have it - and who knows, maybe it's your last chance. Go after Josh, Donna. To hell with the consequences - you can handle them, anyway."  
  
"Have you been talking to Norie again?" I ask.  
  
"No. Sam Seaborn."  
  
"Sam?"  
  
"Um, yeah," she mumbles, and then brightens. "Oh, you know what? I did see Norie's latest article. Although I think that 'How To Sleep With Your Boss And Not The Office Politics' was a bit obvious, even for her."  
  
"Yeah," I sigh.  
  
"So you should go and collect your daisies, or whatever."  
  
"You mean gather my rosebuds?"  
  
"Yeah, that. Go jump him," she advises.  
  
"Shut up," I laugh. Then I actually stop and think about what she's said. "You're right. I hate it, but you're right, Cammie. I'm going to have to fix this, once and for all."  
  
"That's right."   
  
"End this now," I state.  
  
"Absolutely."  
  
"I can't let myself go through another week like this one."  
  
"Nope."  
  
"That's it. I'll make a decision!"  
  
"You go, girl!"  
  
"But…I think I'll do it tomorrow."  
  
He shoulders slump slightly, but she shrugs. "I guess that'll do. Now throw another patty. This time you have to close your eyes and make a wish."  
  
"Okay," I grin, selecting one from the proffered bowl and feeling much better about myself. I close my eyes, mutter something under my breath, and let it fly. Almost immediately, a car alarm screeches through the night, followed by a masculine shout.  
  
"Oh my God!" I peek over the railing and survey the vehicle parked below. It's a dark, shiny car, with a brand new spider-web shatter in the middle of the windshield. When I turn back to Cammie, she's holding a hamburger with a newfound respect and a certain amount of awe.   
  
"It's his car!" I squeak at her. She nods, and continues to stare at the object in her hand.   
  
"Wow," she breathes. "These are _amazing_!"  
  
"Cammie!"  
  
"What?" She looks up from the burger, gets a good look at my expression, and assumes the `sad but supportive friend' face."Well, if you're sure you've made up your mind... Let him down gently, Donna.And hey," she forces a laugh, "let's hope he's got insurance, huh?"

TBC…


	4. The Morning After

AN:  Sorry for the shortness of this chapter.  More to come!

         ~Len

                                                                                             Chapter 4:  The Morning After

    I squint against the morning sunlight that glares off the sidewalk leading from the street.  It's making it hard to see the faces of the people who walk down it, but I don't really need to see faces.  After a few more minutes of not seeing a familiar perky stride, I return to my desk.  It's piled high with stuff and the light on my phone is flashing like crazy.  On a whim, I retrieve my voice mail.

   "You have twenty three new messages," it tells me.

   I hang up again and go back to perfecting the drum track for 'We Will Rock You', played by Josh Lyman on antique office furniture.

   Donna's not here yet.

   Ho, hum.  Thunk, thunk, thud.

   Nope, not here at all.

   Thunk thunk thud.

   There isn't the faintest trace of Donna.  Nothing at all.

   Hmm. Thud.

   Maybe she's stuck in traffic.  Curse that Monday morning traffic.

   Thunk.

  And while we're at it, let's just curse the entire day right across.  Because this is the day that all the weekend's troubles catch up with us.  The collapse of the Mexican economy.  The latest stupid-ass thing some Republican senator said to get his fifteen second sound-byte.  Or, as is**_ the case on this particular bright shining morning, the fact that we're all going to die from radiation poisoning._**

   Oh.  That's right.  I'm supposed to stop saying things like that.  Sometimes people misunderstand my acerbic wit, and this inevitably leads to things like…a secret plan to fight inflation.  Just so we're completely clear about this – I was joking.  We are not going to die.

   But according to the newspaper clipping left on my desk this morning, we've solved the California black-out problem.

   Yes, ladies and gentlemen, we are going to make Nevada glow in the dark.  And they think that the Nuclear Waste Repository in Yucca Mountain will be detrimental to the environment.  Not as detrimental as drilling the Alaskan wilderness for oil, right?  The glow the repository will give off should be bright enough for a San Francisco resident to comfortably read a newspaper by.

****

   There.  See?  I just did it again!  It's seven in the morning and I already know today is going to be a disaster.  I can read the signs.  

   I think the most obvious sign that things are shaping up to be one of those, "Why couldn't they have just blown up the planet?" type of days is the state of the files on top of my bookshelf.  They have moods.  There is a certain way they look when the days is going to turn out really great – all the corners of all the papers are nice and crisp, and they all stay in nice, perky stacks.

   This is not one of those days.

   This is a limp, yellowing, sliding file kind of day.  The big binders have somehow worked their way precariously to the top of the piles, and are teetering dangerously over the edge.

   Today is going to completely suck.

   Before you start to question my sanity here, let me assure you that I am not basing my prediction solely on my paperwork barometer.  Let's not forget the rather conspicuous absence of Donna.  Days tend to suck when she's not around.

   "Josh."

   I stop banging on my desk – which is really too bad because I have moved onto a percussion rendition of 'Hold The Line' and it really sounds quite…okay, so the song is totally unrecognizable.  The whole beating on inanimate objects thing is very therapeutic, though.  I look up at Sam.

   "Yeah?"

   "You heard about the thing?"

   He looks a little perturbed.  But then, our Sam's a big environmentalist and this latest crisis is a Greenie's nightmare.  "I got the report – part of it – right here," I say, trying to locate the folder.  To my upper left I hear the paperwork on my bookshelf slide a little further towards 'Hellish and Horrible'.

   "They think they can just build whatever they want because it's Nevada?  To hell with the native endangered desert wildlife, to hell with future generations, and for that matter, to hell with Vegas?  Where do these guys get off?"

   "It's a repository, Sam.  It's not like they're testing atom bombs out there."

   He glares, but it's not directed at me.  "No, they've done that already."

   I shrug and smirk.  "It's Area 51, Sam.  They have to do something that will piss the public off every twenty years or so or it will lose the mystique."

   Sam loses the outraged tree-hugger face and looks interested.  "Really?  That's seriously Area 51?"

   Oh, I love my job.  I grin.  "Hell if I know.  They don't tell me that stuff.  I don't know if they even tell the President that stuff."

   "Oh."  He sighs in disappointment and turns to leave, and then pauses as he notices something.  "Hey, where's Donna?"

   Ah, yes.  The question on everyone's mind.  "Donnatella Moss has apparently chosen today – a day which will probably end with the unshaven masses picketing the Capitol Building and disrupting traffic city-wide – to be tardy for exactly the fourth**_ time in her employment."_**

    "Really?"

   "Well, don't sound so happy about it.  I think we can all guess why she's not here at seven-thirty on a Monday morning."

   Sam grins and leans against the door.  "Why would that be?"

   Why is he making me say it?  I don't even like thinking it.  I've directed most of my energies since the moment I woke up towards _not_ thinking of it.  "Lawyers.  I think she's keeping lawyer's time today."  Ow.  There goes that dull throbbing around my ribs again.

   "Lawyer's time?  Don't you mean Banker's time?  You're a lawyer."

   I should just say it.  Just say it, get it out of my head, and get over it.  "She went home with Dave, Sam.  You connect the dots."  The words bounce hollowly around the room, and I rub my temples.  Saying them out loud didn't seem to help very much.

  My best friend doesn't appear to commiserate with me.  Instead he rolls his eyes.  "CJ's right, Josh."

   "What?"

   "You _are_ an idiot.  Have you even tried calling her this morning?  There's probably a perfectly good reason."

   I lean back in my chair and stare at the pencil marks on the ceiling.  "No… I don't want her to think that I'm…trying to break anything up."

   "But you have been.  You're the one who admitted to sabotaging her dates, Josh."

   "That's not quite – it's**_ not like that, Sam. I haven't been stalking her, for God's sake.  I just sort of…end up there.  Like that time I ran into her at the Putt-Putt Golf Course…oh, that was a great idea, by the way.  Totally made up for the whole…you know, yelling at the reporters.  CJ said I was "not a total idiot" after I let her win a couple nine games, and Donna actually agreed, after I bought her and that gomer Luis an ice-cream…where was I?" I break off.  As Donna would say, I just really don't know where I'm going with this._**

   Sam's eyes are darting back and fourth, and he is absently riffling the pages of his legal pad.  Pages which, coincidentally, are torn and yellowing.  The day's suckiness goes up another notch.  I follow his eyes, but can't see anything out in the bullpen but busy staffers.  "What?  Is it Leo?"

   "Hm?" he starts, "What?  What are you talking about?  What __were_ you talking about?  I lost you after the stalking part…"_

   "Sam!  There was no stalking involved.  Stalking suggests that I actually had prior knowledge of her whereabouts and that is just blatantly untrue.  And you of all people should believe me, because let's not forget that more often than not, _you_ are the one who….who…" I break off, open-mouthed.

   Wait.  Wait just one second.  Sam.  Set-up.  Sabotage.  Stalker.  They all…kinda…rhyme. Coincidence?  I think not.

    I launch myself up out my chair and advance stealthily toward him.  The pieces are falling into place, everything's starting to make sense, and I don't mind telling you – I'm about three seconds from ramming Sam's annoying little automatic pencil into his left ear.  "You!" I grind out.  "You're the one who 'suggested' I take CJ to Putt-Putt.  You're the one who said a side-walk café was a good place to unwind.  You're the one who dragged me off to that stupid-assed French Wine Bistro.  You told me you liked the waitress," I accuse.

   He smiles nervously.  "I lied?" he asks, and takes a step backwards into the bullpen.

   "Is that the best you can do?" I say loudly.  "How about, 'I'm sorry, Josh, for ruining any hopes you had of future happiness with the most amazing woman on the face of the planet!'  How about that, huh Sam?!" I continue.

   I'm slowly driving him back, and he has a look on his face that I've seen before.  It's the 'I'm going to run away like a little girl' face.  Probably smart, because friend or no friend, I'm about ready to knock him over.  And I'm stronger and heavier than he is.

   But he is faster.  He spins around, bumps into one of the staffers, apologizes, and sprints off down the hall.

   Coward.

   I am too dignified to chase after him.  I settle for glaring at all the staring staff members and going back to my office to machinate.  Revenge will be mine.  I'll get him – oh yes.  And his little Republican, too. ****

   Evil laugh, cackle, cackle.  

   For now I'll just watch for Donna out the window.  She'll be coming back to work today.  I know she will.  Because she's only missed three days before in almost four years of work, and never without a good reason.  And the fact that she probably believes I am an obsessed stalker isn't a good enough reason.  Even if – as I discovered – I actually had very little to do with the stalking other than being the…you know, physical stalker.

   I sigh and let my head fall against the window glass.  Thud.  I honestly can't believe my best friend did this to me.


End file.
